The gym was a large, open space with minimal equipment; in other words, it was essentially a cellar space meant to be a room where one could fight. This space, however, was not planned or made as carefully as the bedrooms, mainly because Mariella did not fight.
A white-hot power coursed through my mind, burning away every last remnant of feeling weak, of being a victim needing love and care. It burned everything away until nothing remained but pure rage. Damon had made a lazy gesture to dress me, as if the thought of me showing my body and potentially getting something other than disdain and hate from him was abhorrent.
I was in a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and despite having been in that cage for nine fucking weeks, my muscles burned with the desire to lash out. Right now, I wasn't concerned with being sloppy or careless, nor was I focused on executing every kick perfectly. Surely, the time for that would come, but not now.
Damon watched me with an expressionless, cold calculation in his eyes, as if my presence bothered him and I was nothing to him. Of course, being fueled by rage for the first time in over six months might have something to do with how I perceived the world and everyone in it. I was a mess, a very dangerous mess, one that Damon couldn't afford to underestimate. He had learned over the years to take my rage seriously.
I didn't warn him; I struck. My first strike, a lightning-fast kick to his belly, landed with devastating precision, sending him flying backward several feet. He landed on his feet and charged. He came at me like an enraged bull, without restraint or planning. He was unloading something, his rage, in a way that only I could offer, in the most violent, primitive way: fighting.
I was the only one challenging him, making him hurt, and I was as unpredictable as ever. My rage flooded so freely, empowering me that his hits and kicks that landed barely registered at first. I was too heated by my rage and by the fight itself. It wasn't always wise, but there we were, two forces of nature, hitting, slamming, kicking, and grunting.
Neither of us spoke or whimpered; only deep grunts were heard when a nasty kick or hit landed. My leg shot out, connecting with Damon's ribs, and my elbow followed, hitting his shoulder as his firm grip on my neck made me gasp. He staggered backward, and I jump-kicked, hitting his sternum. Kicks and hits were exchanged so fast that a human might not have been able to perceive everything.
We were both unloading. I was fucked up by my treatment; I wasn't the cunt anymore, and I was furious that he had broken my heart again, and this time, he took away those who were important to me for good, giving them to Mariella. How the hell could he do that, the goddamn idiot? I thought he was better; I thought he loved me; I thought he had a brain in his head.
Slowly, those thoughts faded as pure, unadulterated rage took over. I wasn't feeling; I was living my rage. What Damon didn't take into account, or keep in mind, was that my rage had been locked away for over six months. That is wickedly dangerous for a supernatural; rage like that should be accessed and unloaded, and it was soon way past the point that he could have turned this into seduction.
Not that he even wanted to; he, too, had too much to unload, and since I was the best opponent, this was what it was. Not seduction, and of course, Mariella was talking to him through their connection almost all the time, telling him just to let go, to not even try to seduce me. She came up with so many reasons why seduction wasn't the best way for me, even if it might have been.
She was jealous and the very epitome of The Cunt, the very definition of one within our group. Yet, she wasn't ready to admit this truth to herself or anyone else. That realization would come later, and her mistakes would teach her a great deal, at a significant cost, including my respect. That respect was now utterly gone and irretrievable, as she possessed nothing worthy of it. She was a weak, manipulative, and greedy individual who only ever thought of herself, devoid of any selflessness, embodying only a "me, me, me" attitude.
As my rage intensified, I became faster and more brutal. Damon's yelps and grunts were music to my ears; each pained grunt, each cracked bone, and each expression of genuine pain ignited a dark satisfaction within me. I was giving him hell, and he deserved every damn hit and kick I landed. I, too, received some nasty kicks and hits, but I didn't care. My rage dulled the pain, transforming it into a mere sensation, not an alarm signaling something wrong with my body, but a simple feeling, nothing to worry about.
Damon's once expressionless face began to twist into a rage-fueled grimace, a mask of cold, hard fury. I, however, kept my face neutral. Snarling like a beast or revealing the depth of my fury would serve no purpose; I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. This was all mine.
I would be the one enjoying this, and by God, I deserved it. I had every right to beat the shit out of him, repeatedly. He had betrayed me, our love. He had once again proven himself to be a spineless, weak excuse for a man, succumbing to Mariella's desires.
In that moment, I longed for a time when Mariella's opinion would be irrelevant, when I would be the one making the decisions. One must always remember that if you wish for something hard enough in life, you just might have it, but when you finally face it, it is rarely what you expected. That would be quite a lesson for me as well.
Damon was grunting with increasing frustration as my relentless attack continued. Neither of us was thinking clearly. Had he been thinking rationally, he would have known better than to challenge me to a gym fight after my rage had been inaccessible for over six months.
With my rage, it takes a long time to fester, and it would have taken little more finesse to get me to unload, and most importantly, he would not have gotten his rage out.
In a perfect world, Magnum and Wulfe would have been the pair to initiate this; they would have measured my rage and only approved it after careful consideration. Only then would Damon have been permitted to engage me.
However, the world was far from perfect, and as events unfolded, none of us could maintain control or restraint. We pulled no punches, fueled by a rage that consumed my mind, driving Damon to be crueler and more determined to win, to release the pressure building within him. Yet, his pressure consisted of more than just rage, a fact that time would reveal.
Grunts, frustrated yells, and the pungent combination of sweat and aggression filled the gym as our relentless assault continued. Damon's anger grew, leading to carelessness and sloppiness, allowing me to land several hits.
After he delivered a devastating blow across the right side of my chest, breaking five ribs and partially caving in my sternum, I staggered back a few steps. Then, I launched myself into the air, executing a one-and-a-half revolution twist, turning partially sideways, and driving both feet into Damon's chest. Landing on my feet as he was thrown back six feet by my attack, he crashed to the floor, his heart stopping momentarily.
After a few seconds, he stirred, his eyes cold as ice. He rose and summoned his favorite weapon, a fighting stick, twirling it in a figure eight to create a defensive shield. He approached me, but while he might fend off some of my attacks, I kept him constantly on the defensive. He had no opportunity to strike unless he abandoned his twirling shield, but he was too consumed by rage to think logically.
I, on the other hand, was simply feeling my rage. For me, it wasn't just about being enraged like Damon. My rage was unique; it was the near-exclusive sensation of power. When my rage was fully unleashed, all I felt was powerful. Nothing could touch me, nothing could hurt me; I was on top. And if someone dared to challenge me, I was ready.
Though I call it rage, it transcends mere anger or fury. It was not just a feeling of being pissed off. It's difficult to explain, as it was forged in my mind, shaped by my life experiences and powers, and further molded by my evolution. Thus, even if "rage" is the term I use, I lack a better one, at least for now. It's not simply the feeling of being powerful but the certainty of it. And there is nothing I would not do to enforce this feeling if challenged.
Damon's rage was a blinding, burning force that compelled him to act out. However, this kind of outburst was always followed by a period of reflection, a time for him to realize the consequences of his actions. In contrast, I experienced no such comedown. Whatever I did when my rage surfaced was simply devoid of regret.
I had learned to accept my rage as an integral part of myself, focusing on controlling it rather than allowing it to control me. While maintaining constant control wasn't always enjoyable or easy, I recognized that this power was too dangerous to unleash indiscriminately.
I was swift, forcing Damon to drop his shield as he desperately sought an opportunity to strike and defend himself. A seasoned predator like him loathed being on the defensive; he craved attack, to inflict pain. I was denying him that outlet, refusing to give him an opening unless he took a significant risk.
In other words, I was playing with fire, and even if I got burned, my rage demanded it. I relentlessly pushed him, waiting for him to falter. As he altered his attack, I adapted my approach, seizing his stick and snapping it in two. He immediately conjured a new one.
But I am fearless, immune to death, and devoid of the fear of it. Damon, however, harbored that fear. For a long time, he was vulnerable to wooden stakes, and the broken sticks in my hands now posed a significant threat. I was pushing him to the brink, confronting him with my rage and weapons that once could have killed him. He wasn't yet as confident in his immortality as I was, and it unnerved him.
Time became irrelevant as we fought, and I had no sense of how long our battle had raged. At one point, I noticed Damon was tiring, growing clumsy, and losing his edge. His expression remained fierce, but the connection between us betrayed his exhaustion. Yet, I pressed on, heedless of the danger of cornering him, as he could become even more violent when pushed to the limit.
Mariella further complicated matters by communicating with him telepathically, urging him to subdue me so they could proceed to the Azores and conclude their mission, and have a long and devoted fucking holiday. According to Mariella, I had indulged in my tantrum long enough, and it was time for it to end.
I attacked Damon, sinking a broken piece of stick almost into his heart. That was it; something snapped in his mind, and he utterly lost control.
His eyes turned red, veins pulsing across his face, and he hissed, "It is time to end this damn circus. Stand down, or I'll make you."
I didn't reply but instead kicked him, sending him flying three meters, where he landed on his ass.
In a low voice, he warned, "Fine, I warned you."
Suddenly, my world erupted in white-hot pain as he dug out the remote for the electric collar around my neck and pressed it fully on. My rage evaporated, dropped into its well in my mind, and I collapsed on my side. He immediately attacked, first pressing the regulator for my sedative organ, blurring my mind and rendering my muscles useless.
I managed to roll onto my side, but he walked over and kicked me in the stomach, sending me flying several meters again. Still, it wasn't enough for him; he came at me again, this time stomping on my hip, breaking it and my femur, as my bones were already weakened. I moaned weakly. He kicked me in the neck, cutting off my breath, then kicked my back.
I tried to curl into a ball, but he stomped on my ribs, pressing down, smiling cruelly as a series of sharp cracks echoed in the gym. He kicked me in the face several times, and one vicious kick burst my left eye; I could feel blood dripping and what was left of my eye hanging on my cheek.
He rolled me onto my back, raised his leg, ready to stomp on my chest when a quiet voice, the most dangerous sound I had ever heard, commanded, "Stop. Right now."
Wulfe, Adam, and Charles walked in. Wulfe was furious, radiating extreme danger, and blue electric magic crackled around him.
"I trusted you," he said, his voice dangerously low. "I trusted you with her. I trusted you with my unicorn, so you could heal her, and this is how you repay me? By breaking her. Attacking her, killing her? And no, Mariella can't talk to you right now. I broke that connection, and you won't get it back. I also weakened your soulmate bond with her as a start of your punishment. Go. Go to the damn Azores. Stay there and hope I'm in a better mood next time you come near our pack. You are no longer a pack leader—you have been outvoted."
Damon retorted, "You damn idiot, you can't outvote me! This looks bad, but she heals; she always does. I reacted, okay, maybe it was too much, but I won't apologize."
Charles's voice was a dangerous whisper. "You are outvoted. The pack consists of 30 members, with the alpha pair each holding two votes. You, along with the nine other Salvatores and Mariella,"—he spat the name and spat on the floor as if she were trash—"do not have enough votes, only 12. As for us, we have 19, plus Mimi's extra vote, making 20. Twenty to twelve is pretty obvious. None of us wants you to be pack leader, not when you are a pussyslave, not when you lied to us, stopped us from helping Mimi, and prioritized Mariella's pussy."
His tone was dangerous as ever as he continued, "Wulfe intended to keep an eye on you, to ensure your little plan went as you said it would. But this was never the purpose; she is most in need of help, and you beat her up instead of allowing her to unleash her rage."
I panted, struggling to stay awake. Pain assaulted me from so many places that I could barely breathe. All of this was flooding to Adam and Charles, as well as to Wulfe, but not to Damon anymore. Somehow, I felt that Wulfe had done something, removing Damon as my protector and replacing him with Charles. Charles's love, his protector power, flooded into me, attempting to ease my state. Damon clenched his jaw as Adam crouched next to me and injected something into my veins. Blissful darkness took me.
Wulfe's voice was as arctic as ever. "Give me those regulators, all of them, including Mariella's. You are unfit to handle them. Our new pack leader, Charles, will have them."
Charles waited. Damon furrowed his brow, sweat beading on his forehead as Wulfe's will overtook his. He handed all the regulators to Charles, but not willingly.
Enraged but defeated, Damon walked out without a word, determined to have the best time possible in the Azores. He wanted to forget the entire, stupid pack. Perhaps someday he might bother to return; he expected them to beg him. However, he was too cocksure, too heated, and too tired to see what he had done wrong. He would have time for that later.
Adam picked Mimi up, murmuring, "Poor baby, we'll get you well, don't you worry. Everything will be just fine now; we will make sure you are the priority, not Mariella's pussy."
Charles said tiredly, "Let's go home; I am done with this shit."
Wulfe asked, "Where are we planning to go?"
Adam smiled slightly, holding a little surprise for them all. "Home," he said, "you will see. We are going home."
They walked out of the gym and into the outside, where their car was waiting. Once Mimi was okay, recovered for a few days, fully healed, and ready to start proper loving healing with them, as she deserved, they would call the rest of the pack to their new home.